Benihime
by misinmyname
Summary: Her name came from the color of her feathers, a few of which were a deep, vibrant shade of crimson. She was mostly gold, covered in an ever-shifting mass of molten, precious metal that happened to shape itself into the form of a large bird of prey.


Hey,

Okay, I know that this story is short and lame and whatever, but the idea has been bouncing around my head for a while, and I just wanted to get it out. I hope somebody out there reads it.

Thanks,

Emmy

He always thought that she was beautiful. One of the two most beautiful women that he knew. It was a toss up between her and Yoruichi, though he truly loved both of them equally. They were both strong, fierce. They both feigned indifference, though he knew of their reality.

Her name came from the color of her feathers, a few of which were a deep, vibrant shade of crimson. She was mostly gold, thought, covered in an ever-shifting mass of molten, precious metal that happened to shape itself into the form of a large bird of prey.

Her head carries a plume, of sorts. He always preferred to think of it as her crown, a show to the clueless observer of her obvious nobility. She was brave, not one to be trifled with.

Her tail and claws were grey, the only dull color anywhere on her body. The feathers were straight, long, and rigid, and somehow were striped, black and the grey the color of steel. The feathers weren't rounded, though—they ended at an angle, as if they had been sliced at the end. The talons were sharp, hooked demons. They were made to attack, made to kill her enemies. They were not vibrant, they were not glorious—they were dull, lifeless. It was fitting, and one of the things that He always thought was fitting for the woman. She was honest, at least, and didn't try to pretend that killing was anything but what it was: killing. There was nothing glorious or beautiful about it.

She wasn't symmetrical, at least not as far as her colors spread. It was disconcerting to see, he always thought, a bird that looked different from different angles. Her left wing was red, and somehow, the feathers there were softer, rounder, younger. They were what she truly wished she could be, for, as every strong warrior does, she wished for nothing more than peace and quiet with her master.

But it was simply not to be.

Her right wing was the dangerous one. It was gold, with a metallic kind of sharpness to it that allowed for both a look and a feel of danger that resounded with fervor from the edge of her wings. When it his the air at the perfect angle, one could hear a sound reverberating, a metallic zing that made anyone who heard it want to shiver in absolute fear.

When she attacked, the sound was the sharpest, the loudest. It could echo, somehow, in the minds of anyone who heard it. Her dive would start, and she would shoot through the air, blindingly fast. If the light was right, then she would look like lightning, the sun reflecting off of her feathers. She would scream as she came down, cry out in a sort of primal shriek. That sound, too, could bounce around the listener's head, until the fear that it inspired along could take down the enemy.

She would attack then, when the enemy was afraid. Her wings would open, though she would be going to fast that the wall of red and gold would be almost translucent. She would slow down to that her talons could strike the enemy, and then she would swoop away, somehow unharmed.

The first time he ever heard her scream, he had thought that she was crying. He had thought that she, his princess, was sad, and weak. He had, of course, been wrong, and had been left with a scar to prove it. He sometimes asked her to cry for him, but she never did it—she was stronger than that. She was not weak, like he was. And he knew it.

He would command her to scream when he summoned her. The metal of his blade would show her tail, the way that there was no artistic end. The chain on one said would be her wing, the loops on the other side her other wing. The tassel that hung from the back of the hilt was a show of the plume at the top of her head. He would spin her, and as the chain twirled one way and the loops spun the other, it could have been her wings as she braked on the air, and the red wall could have been her entire self. The beauty that it contained could easily have been the effect of her shriek, her scream.

He truly lover her, everything about her. She was fierce, it was true. She could kick his ass. If he'd had an actual sense of pride, he might have even been ashamed of the fact that a bird could beat him in a fight to the death. But he had no pride, at least not the pride that many men rely upon as they attempt, however futile the attempt may be, to defend themselves. No, his pride was the knowledge that his friend were that much better than he was. He was proud that she was his ally, his ultimate friend. He was glad that she was so fierce as to be able to kill him with a single cry of his name.

In truth, Kisuke knew himself to be weak. He greatly disliked himself, for many reasons. He had done many a thing in his life that he had come to regret. He was cold, unable to connect with people. It was his tragic downfall, though he didn't like the word tragic. He thought it was to heroic for his weak, pathetic self. He knew better than to call himself a hero. He knew that he was unworthy.

She was his princess, his strength. He had become strong in his life, albeit his life after death, in order to do one thing: to be worthy of using her as his sword, his cutter. It was his mission, his ultimate goal, to be worthy of the woman who he had been born with.

He loved her. Maybe he was even _in_ love with her. It sounded horrible to say, but... She was strong. She was his protector, undying in her loyalty to him. She had always, always been there for him, just as he always intended to be there for her. They were together, that always had been and always would be.

Yes, he loved her. He had only ever loved twice, but of the two, she had always won. She was his princess.

His princess who was drenched in blood.


End file.
